


to the world and her spoils

by indigostohelit



Category: Narcos (TV), Narcos: Mexico (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Roleplay, Under-negotiated Kink, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-06 17:43:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20510960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigostohelit/pseuds/indigostohelit
Summary: Pacho grins at him tiger-wide and white, with all his teeth. He doesn't mind suspicion; Amado is more than capable of deciding on his own whether he'll trust him tonight. Pacho has no interest in wasting time and effort convincing his friends to take what they need. He only enjoys offering it to them.





	to the world and her spoils

**Author's Note:**

> As per usual, for the goldfish?: you fuckers know who you are. While some dialogue is in Spanish and some in English, it should all be considered "canonically" in Spanish. This is based on the fictional texts of the TV shows Narcos and Narcos: Mexico, not on any real persons, living or dead.
> 
> "Under-negotiated Kink" is the best phrase I can find for "kink was negotiated offscreen, but is performed by violent and unhealthy people for violent and unhealthy reasons". Title from "It Keeps Us Dancing", by The Family Crest.
> 
> (This was written before Narcos: Mexico Season 2 was released, but can be read with the events of that season in mind.)

They’re on Amado’s balcony when Pacho notices Amado is watching him.

Not that Amado isn’t always watching him. Not that Amado hasn't been watching him since he arrived, his eyes on Pacho in the hangar, in the truck, in the airplane to Juarez; not that Pacho minds. He aims to be the sort of man that men like to look at, and doesn’t mind much whether they’re doing it from want or fear or envy. He’s seen Amado feel all three.

The way Amado's watching him now—hesitant, suspicious, out of the corner of his eye, as if that means Pacho won't see him do it—is none of those. That doesn't mean Pacho hasn't seen it before. That doesn't mean it isn't welcome. Pacho sips at his drink, lets his mouth linger on the rim of the glass, licks the wetness from his lips with deliberate care.

When he looks at Amado again, Amado startles, like a child with his hand caught in the sweets jar. Pacho grins at him tiger-wide and white, with all his teeth. It has the effect he intends: Amado laughs a little, the tension run out of his shoulders, and smiles back. He looks a little amused, a little exasperated. A little suspicious, still.

Pacho doesn't mind suspicion. Amado is more than capable of deciding on his own whether he'll trust him tonight. Pacho has no interest in wasting time and effort convincing his friends to take what they need. He only enjoys offering it to them.

“It's getting late,” he says. It's not a lie. The sun went down over the hills hours ago; Juarez is a pattern of jewels and glimmering motion. The darkness is hot and dry, a snakeskin shrugged off by the sun.

Amado's throat works briefly. “It is,” he says. “Are you going to bed?”

“I thought I might,” says Pacho, sets his drink down on the table, and stands. “If you don't mind?”

“Not at all,” says Amado. “Good night.”

“I'll try,” says Pacho, and smiles to himself all the way off the balcony. He can see, out of the corner of his eye, Amado turning to watch him go.

It's cool in the hallways, quiet. Amado's bedroom isn't far, and is, as usual, much sparser than Pacho's own: dark walls and thin yellow curtains, a desk, a wide bed stacked with pillows, a map of North America with curving arrows sketched over Chihuahua and Durango in faded blue pen. Pacho strips without bothering to make a production of it, leaves his folded pants on the desk and his shirt over a chair. He’s fiddling with its collar when he hears footsteps behind him.

Amado is hesitating by the door, as if he’s afraid to come in. Pacho tries not to let his irritation show on his face; Amado is always like this, early on, especially when they haven’t had sex in a long time. He doesn’t know if he’s the only man Amado sleeps with, he certainly has no interest in knowing, but he doesn’t like to have his job made harder for him.

Still, Amado can’t help it. And considering the situation—Pacho feels fondness bubble up unwillingly in his chest—he’s willing to allow Amado any amount of leeway. He always has been.

He lets go of the shirt, sits on the bed and lets his legs sprawl open. This is the part he has to be careful with. Can’t be disaffected and aloof, the way he might be with a boy he was really toying with; can’t be too sweet, too kind. He looks at Amado’s face, Amado’s eyes, makes himself think about what it would be like if he were—a different sort of man. If he were—he shifts his hips, his shoulders—the sort of man who indulges himself rarely, if ever. A hard man, an intelligent man; a man hungry and restless—self-satisfied and dissatisfied—

—and then his lip curling up—muscles relaxed, the line of his body long and sinuous—and finally the eyes, hard and focused, and a little tired; and the voice, pitched lower, gravelly when he needs it to be.

“Come over here, Amado,” he says. “Get me hard. I’d like to use your mouth.”

Amado falls to his knees.

Pacho has a type, has always had one. He likes, as a rule, beautiful boys: delicate, liquid-eyed, a little sweet, a little bratty. Boys who will laugh at him; boys who will go quiet and shivering and delighted when he touches them. Boys only too happy to kill for him, die for him, spread their legs for him and scream without his even having to make them hurt.

Amado’s none of that. There are bags under his eyes, silver starting to bleed into his hair. Pacho’s been his friend a long time—even a year is a lifetime, in this business, and he’s known Amado for lifetimes enough—and he can see age settling over Amado’s skin, like dust on an empty house.

Still. Still, the way he looks up at Pacho, lips parted, eyes blown dark. His cock hard already, in his pants, and not making a move to touch it. Maybe not even aware of it, from the way he’s looking at Pacho, hazy and sharp with hunger.

He shuffles forward on his knees. “Con permiso,” he says, barely a breath, and eases Pacho’s zipper down.

Pacho’s half-hard himself already—he doesn’t like to set Amado anything too difficult, not when he’s like this, tight-knuckled and on edge. But even if he weren’t, the sight of Amado, eyelashes fluttering onto his cheeks, pressing his lips carefully, reverently to Pacho’s cock—he kisses down his shaft, cups his balls in one hand, gentle. Pacho taught him this, this slowness, this ability to luxuriate. He isn’t sure what sex with men Amado had before him; he only knows it must have been furtive, hushed, by the desperate for the desperate, touching only what was necessary. Frightened.

Pacho makes it a point never to be frightened, least of all during pleasure. He lives in his own body. He takes his own time. Shame is an enemy more deadly than any cartel; but Pacho is quicker, and crueler, and he is his own master.

His cock is resting on Amado’s lip. Pacho slides it forward, just a little, watches the smear of precome it leaves there, how it catches the golden light.

He says, quietly, “Beg me.”

Amado stares up at him, pupils like dark pools.

“You heard me,” says Pacho. “Beg for it. Convince me your mouth is good enough.”

Amado’s breath hitches, a sigh. He sits back on his heels. Pacho expects him to look up; instead, his eyes slide shut.

“Patrón,” he says.

Pacho waits.

“Patrón,” says Amado, and he leans forward, and he rests his forehead against Pacho’s knee. “Sirvo a tu placer.”

Oh, he’s misjudged this. Pacho reaches towards Amado’s hair on instinct—to stroke it, to pull it, to comfort Amado, to touch him—and then hesitates. Amado’s breath is slow. Shaky.

Pacho’s hand hovers for a moment more. Then he takes Amado’s chin, soft but firm, and tilts Amado’s face up to his.

“Sirves a mi placer,” he repeats back to Amado, deliberate and heavy, rolling the words around in his mouth. “Well. Maybe you have earned a little pleasure of your own.”

He feeds Amado his cock; he does it slowly, cautiously. The caution is important. The man Amado wants him to be would be careful with Amado's mouth—not for Amado’s sake, but for his own. The man he wants walks a fine line between self-control and self-denial. Pacho, who rarely denies himself anything, wishes to deny Amado even less.

It’s been a very long time since he fell into bed with a man for no other reason than that he liked him. What is it they say? _Everything in the world is about sex, except— _Amado is one of the few men in the world with whom Pacho is not interested in power. He is one of the few men in the world whose mouth around Pacho’s cock is not a surrender or a punishment or a payment. It's only pleasure, hot and tight and obscene in its sweetness, a thing good in its own self. Bait, with no hook attached.

He slides his fingers into Amado's hair, tugs lightly. Amado shivers a little, hardly noticeable; Pacho notices it. “Good,” he says, “good,” and does it again, harder. He watches the praise land like a blow; watches Amado absorb it, breathe out, and bend to take Pacho in further, nearly to the point of choking. Not quite. Never quite. If Pacho wants that, he’ll have to push Amado's head down himself.

Long ago, when he was young and his name was new and uncertain in Gilberto Rodríguez’s mouth, Pacho met a boy, and kissed him, and liked it. He'd let the boy dance in his arms, sleep in his bed, sit beside him while he spoke to dangerous men and took their money and cleaned his gun. He'd let the boy ask for gifts, favors, kisses, and he'd given them to him. He'd liked that, too—being generous; being able to afford generosity. He'd liked asking the boy for kisses in return. He'd liked seeing him smile. After sixteen months the boy had turned up on a Cali street corner with half his head missing and marks of torture on him; a week later, Pacho had walked into an ambush, and three of his sicarios had been shot.

He'd been shocked. Not at death, the noise and the blood and the corpses on the ground, but at his own emotion: his horror, his confusion, his shock itself. He had not understood until then: grief had blunted him. No—love had blunted him, sanded down his intelligence, opened up his sightlines. Pacho is, at his best, less a man than something sharp and wakeful watching from behind a man’s eyes. He’d let himself forget that, for a little while; he’d let himself melt into the animal he lives in, all impulse and domesticity and stupid, unthinking satiation.

It’s been many years since then. He curls his fingers into Amado's hair, and doesn't push his head down.

“God, I love your mouth,” he says, purposefully a little distant, a little distracted. “I love how you look there.” Touches, lightly, the corner of Amado’s lip—a provocation, not a caress. “You’re so pretty like this. What a shame that you should have such a mouth, and that there should be so much time when no one is fucking it.”

Someone who wasn’t watching Amado so closely wouldn’t see it: just a small twitch in his eyes, just his breath coming a little too fast. But Pacho is, and does, and realizes his mistake immediately, and settles back on his elbows on the bed and says, “What a treasure I’ve stolen. What a luxury—what an indulgence it is, that you should be mine alone. But haven’t I earned it? Who would dare to take it from me?”

Amado’s face is smoothing, his breath even. Better. “You should always be on your knees for me,” Pacho says. He feels the noise Amado makes around his cock, involuntary and cut off, and runs a hand through Amado’s hair in reward, scratching lightly at his scalp. “You like that idea, hmm?”

Amado pulls back off Pacho’s cock, licking at his lips. Pacho raises his eyebrows, ready to punish him and more than a little surprised—but Amado only says, whispering-hoarse, “You should—you can. On my face, if you want,” his eyes closed, as if saying it has taken all the will in him, and when he puts his mouth to Pacho’s cock and swallows it down again the lines of his face go still and smooth.

Pacho can’t help but put a hand on Amado’s cheek, run his thumb under his eye. He doesn’t mean to—it’s gentler than he wants to be, more tender than what Amado wants from the man he’s trying to be—but Amado looks so peaceful there, emptied out and still. When Pacho touches him he half-expects him to be soft, insubstantial; but it’s only the same worn skin of Amado’s face.

Under his thumb, Amado’s eyelashes flicker. He sighs a little. He looks up, into Pacho’s eyes.

Pacho had watched, many years ago, a television clip of one of Pablo Escobar’s speeches, back when the man had been running for office. He’d seen, then, how Escobar had looked: spitting invectives, snarling about his poverty, his neighbors, his longing for his _men of always _to be dead and defeated and down in the dust.

It had been like bile, that wave of disgust, washing through Pacho’s chest and foaming up into his throat. How suddenly he’d hated the man!—how overwhelming the urge—the compulsion—to hit him, spit on him, dig fingernails into his face and pull. How he’d longed to rid his eyes and his memory of the look on Escobar’s face, of his naked, unshakable need. How clear it had been, that open wound of feeling, and how clear the call had been to kill anything so raw and wanting dead.

And now, as Amado looks up at him, Pacho sees what he’s been afraid to see: the same open hunger, that need like a clear pool, Amado too deep and dazed to hide it.

But the disgust he’s expecting doesn’t come. Instead, Pacho feels suddenly and terribly soft, his whole body alert with the shock of it, like a glass struck in the wrong place. He’s under Amado’s skin, now—he’s right to the marrow of him; he _has_ dug his fingernails into Amado’s softest parts, and Amado is waiting, barely breathing, for anything he chooses to do.

He opens his mouth and finds himself saying, “Come up to the bed.”

Amado blinks, slow. He looks almost bewildered. Pacho cups his cheek for a moment longer, then slides his hand down to Amado's shoulder, squeezes. “You heard me, Amado,” he says, soft. “Come up to the bed.”

Amado moves like he's in a dream. Pacho helps him, his hands on Amado's shoulder, his waist, his thighs: up onto the bed, his hips lifted, his legs spread. The lubricant is in the same place Amado always keeps it, in the desk; when Pacho climbs back onto the bed, Amado shudders at his touch, his breath barely a shallow movement in his ribcage. He hardly needs any preparation. When Pacho slides into him, still so slow, so careful, he turns his head aside, pressing it into the pillow, as if he can’t bear to see.

“How good you feel,” Pacho says, into his ear. “All for my benefit?” Amado says nothing, but his breath hitches; Pacho eases his hips back, pushes them forward, and watches Amado's mouth fall open. “All for my benefit,” Pacho repeats. “Everything you are. Isn't that right?”

Amado mouths something, faint, breathless. Pacho squeezes his shoulder, digs in his nails. “Isn't that right?” he says.

“Everything,” Amado breathes, hoarse.

“What wouldn't you do for me?” Pacho says.

Amado shakes his head, his eyes closed. “Nothing,” he rasps. “Nothing.”

“You’re going to bring me the world,” Pacho murmurs to him, stroking his hair. “You’re going to be my right hand. You don’t even know, you can’t begin to understand how much you mean to me. I want to bruise you for days, I want to put my gun in your hand, I want the world to see your face and say my name...”

Amado is gasping against his cheek. Pacho rocks gently into him, and watches Amado shiver, watches him shake. His eyes are shut.

“Do you want me to come inside you?” he says, tender.

“Anything,” Amado whispers. “Anything you want.”

Pacho brushes hair off his forehead. “Cariño, I want you,” he says, and begins to fuck Amado in earnest, slow, unrelenting, just a little too rough, and sees the bliss bleed into Amado’s face, how his mouth falls open and his brow smooths, how his fingers curl and uncurl, how he mouths things incomprehensible to Pacho, audible only in his own head.

It takes Pacho a long time to come, which isn’t a bad thing, given the situation. He blinks away the stars in his eyes when he does, the grey briefly washing at the edges of his vision, and folds Amado into his arms, slides a hand over his cock. “You did so well,” he says. “You did so well for me.”

Amado’s eyes are squeezed tight. “For you?” he says.

“Only for me,” Pacho says, increases the pressure a little. “Mine. Mine alone.”

Amado says nothing. His mouth is slack, his hips working. He must be getting close, Pacho thinks, and leans in, and kisses him deep and messy and sweet.

“Te quiero, Amado,” he says against his skin.

Amado says, ragged and barely audible, “Te quiero, Miguel,” and comes into his hand.

It takes a while for the shivering to stop. Pacho lies there in the darkness, running a hand over Amado’s back, and listens to the distant roar of planes in the night sky overhead. When he feels Amado’s heartbeat gradually slow, his muscles deliberately relaxing, he lets him go.

He stretches, like a housecat, and rolls to the edge of the bed. “I’m going to wash up,” he says.

“All right,” says Amado. His voice is flat in the darkness.

The shower is blistering hot. Pacho scrubs himself, enjoying the high-wire balance between pleasure and pain. It’s all sensation, when you get down to it; all sensation that they’re chasing, he and his customers and Amado and the cops, a feeling, an awareness, a little something to put them closer to the right side of death.

He loves Amado very much. He has for a long time. Their friendship is one of the great good things in his life, like the Rodríguez brothers’ respect, or Manuel in his bed. He’d forgive anything Amado did, and Amado has never done anything he’s had to forgive.

He hadn’t liked Félix Gallardo. Hadn’t hated him—had worked with him willingly—but Miguel had been someone of strategy and patience in a little world of passion and impulse, someone of intelligence who’d learned too well that no nearby mind could match his. Not that a narcotraficante needs humility—but the years of war have made clear to Pacho how a man’s spirit is shaped by competition, and Félix had known only ambition, and been too blinkered to distinguish one from the other.

But Amado—Amado isn’t like Pacho. The things Pacho sees, he’s never looked for. The things he’s hungry for, Pacho can’t begin to imagine wanting.

There are a hundred things he wants to ask Amado, each time they do this. _Do you believe I’m him, or are you only pretending, like I am? Is this good for you, or just a way to dig your knuckles into the bruise? _And always, most of all, _Is this a memory, or a dream? Is this skin I step into for you fantasy or real? Did the two of you ever—did he ever really—_

He doesn’t bother to wrap a towel around himself, just pads naked out of the bathroom and splays himself across the bed. The sheets are soft and cool. Amado is rolling out to use the shower, but Pacho catches his wrist.

“I can stay the night,” he says, “if you want me to.”

He catches Amado’s smile in the shadows, swift and bittersweet. “You’ve done plenty,” he says.

“All right,” says Pacho. And then, “You’ll see him again.” A heartbeat after he says it, he can hear it, and wants to kick himself.

Amado pauses in the doorway to the bathroom, steam and yellow light blurring around him. “Yes,” he says. “We should all count our blessings.”

Pacho stares after him as the door closes, trying to figure out if he’s being sarcastic or not.

He picks up his clothes as the shower sputters on, and is out the door long before it clicks into silence.


End file.
